It’s Friday afternoon around 3:00, and I have just arrived at Dad’s apartment to do my bi-weekly inventory so I can re-stock his shelves with groceries, medical supplies, and medications.  As I enter his apartment, I see the typical clutter.  In the kitchen is a makeshift pantry, made of four tiers of shelving.  Littering the floor are old newspapers and newsletters that need to be placed in the recycle bin, although I can’t do that without him supervising, lest he gets upset.  So the floor remains cluttered. 

     When I call out his name, he let’s me know he is in his bedroom.  I wander into his room and find a smiling nurse named Charity standing by the foot of his bed.  Dad is in his wheelchair with his back to me.  Charity has just finished redressing his stasis ulcers and his bed has a used chuck on it that needs to be thrown out as it is contaminated by some of the fluids that drain from his open ulcers.  Dad is glad to see me.

      “Charity, have you met my daughter?”  he asks.  Dad loves to introduce me to the staff.  He watches Charity pack her medical supplies so she can tend to the next resident.

      “Lee Ann,” Dad asks.  “See those alcohol pads?  I need you to buy some for me when you do your shopping.” 

      “I actually have plenty of these,” offers Charity.  “ I will be glad to leave you with a supply of them.” 

      “That won’t be necessary,” says Dad.  “I need some on an ongoing basis, so I will have Lee Ann go buy them.” 

      “Charity, that is a sweet offer,” I say.  “On behalf of Dad, we accept!”  (I’m thinking protect the little cash we have on hand.) 

     We hear a knock at the door.  Dad hollers, “Come in!”  A tall medical aide enters with clean laundry.  Now there are four people squeezed into Dad’s small bedroom.  Dad can’t see her face because his back is still to us.  She is not smiling.  In fact, she looks like she hates her job.  This look only gets exacerbated when my Dad begins to criticize her as she brings in clean T-shirts, sweat pants, and towels.  Dad is fussing at her because she not only picked up his basket of dirty laundry, but she took the liberty to pick up a dirty towel off of his bed. 

     “I don’t want you to take the towel off my bed,” says Dad.  “If I want it cleaned, then I will PUT it in the laundry basket.  I even typed a note and hung it by the laundry basket requesting that you only launder what I put in the basket.” 

     The aide is NOT smiling.  She is clearly put out.   

     “Dad, she was only trying to be helpful,”  I say, trying to rescue her.

      “I leave all kinds of notes around this apartment, but they don’t bother to read them.  Do they not read English?” Dad asks.   The aide rolls her eyes and shakes her head.  She seems sorry she ever showed up.  She heads out the door.                 

     Charity has her travel bag packed with her medical supplies, and she leaves also, “Have a good day, Harry,” she says with all smiles. 

     It’s now Dad and me.  I pull his wheelchair out of the bedroom and into the living room.  He is still agitated from the interaction with the aide, but I am ready to walk through the apartment and make a  list of groceries and supplies he’ll need to sustain him for the next two weeks.  My goal is to get this done quickly so I don’t have to hang around long in an apartment that smells like urine.  Dad is incontinent.  He has adult diapers, but they aren’t enough.  Dad stuffs his sweats with a thick towel  to absorb additional leakages.  But those aren’t always changed as often as they should be, and when they are, the towels go in his laundry basket, and it may be a day before a new wash is done.  The stench  never goes away. 

     I leave him by his computer in the living room.  “I will be back with your groceries in about an hour,” I say as I head out the door. 

     Dad has a strong need to control, especially his environment.  If things aren’t done the way he requests, it’s emotionally disruptive for him, and he takes it out on staff.  If he can’t find what he needs in his apartment, it frustrates him.  If I try to tidy up his apartment when he’s out of pocket by throwing away old newspapers and newsletters, he gets angry because these papers “might be useful later.”  He wants to oversee what leaves the apartment via the trash can, recycle bin, or otherwise.  Caring for my Dad can be challenging for me and the staff who care for him.  Yet I serve my Dad because it’s a high calling.  God commands us to honor our parents.  

      I Timothy 5:4 says that “children or grandchildren should learn first of all to put their religion into practice by caring for their own family and so repaying their parents and grandparents, for this is pleasing to God.”  Though this passage refers to caring for widows, I believe the principle applies to any parent or grandparent who is in need of care.  Verse 8 of this same chapter says, “If anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for his immediate family, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.”  These are samples of biblical reasons I care for my Dad.  But there is an emotional reason that supersedes them.  I love my Dad.  I am committed to giving him the very best I have to offer.  When he passes, I will be able to put my head on a pillow each night knowing I did the very best I could to help him manage the fears and frustrations he’s had to deal with before the Lord takes him home.  He is sick and tired of his life and is praying for an early ticket into eternity.  

     There are many reasons I look forward to heaven, but one will be seeing a father who is completely healed physically and emotionally and spending eternity with him in a perfect, sinless state.  Better days are ahead! 

Blessings,

Lee Ann